


wind whispers

by dragonsong (NekoAisu)



Series: FFXIVWrite 2020 [13]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Angst, Gen, Gender-Neutral Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Ghost X’rhun Tia, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Horror Elements, Other, Past Character Death, Red Mage Questline (Final Fantasy XIV), Red Mage | RDM (Final Fantasy XIV), Soulstone Headcanons, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26481355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/dragonsong
Summary: He stands next to the tomb, one gloved hand resting on the rim as if it was the bannister of a grand staircase. His uniform is well kept and buttoned up to the neck like Red Mages in Ala Mhigan street stories. The laughter lines around his eyes are too light for him to have lived all that long.He can’t have been all that much older than them, when he died.
Relationships: X'rhun Tia & Warrior of Light, X'rhun Tia/Warrior of Light
Series: FFXIVWrite 2020 [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906210
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	wind whispers

**Author's Note:**

> FFXIVWrite Prompt 14: Part
> 
> I thought it would be cool to explore a what-if about how the WoL could have learned Red Magic if X’rhun wasn’t around to teach them like in canon :3c

The Warrior of Light has never been to this part of Ala Mhigo. The dirt feels the same beneath their feet, but the air is heavy with something old and grieving. They step gingerly into the graveyard. 

The wind quiets to a soft whisper, brushing hair back from their forehead as if a mother sending off her child. They shiver, gravel crunching beneath the soles of their boots, and try to find what they were sent here for. 

There is no way that a royal relic would have been buried in an easily visible tomb. All of the ones above ground are in disrepair, stone cracked and discolored from decades out in the Gyr Abanian sun, but they check the inscriptions anyway.

_ Curtis, Varin, M’arahn, Semiel— _ the list grows with every headstone they decipher. None of them are the person they were sent to find. 

They were promised an empty grave. The one who was supposed to have been buried had never been found. They eye the crypt across the courtyard with a grimace. 

Better to get it done before nightfall.

The entryway is drafty and the arching stonework looks no more suspect than simply  _ old.  _ The inside is more of a wreck.

Rubble lines the halls and spirits swipe at them as they pass. Most of the chambers within have been looted, save a few enchanted exceptions. They whisper prayers to some unnamed power that whoever had been resting in each was still at peace but do not stop to clean up or come face to face with corpses. 

The one they’re looking for is all the way at the end of the longest hall and seems suspiciously untouched. When their fingers brush the doorway, it lights up in a flash of black and red, spellwork pulsing before sputtering out. They try touching it again, but the enchantment does not even give more than a token flicker in response. 

There are no further traps or warnings when they stride up the steps and into the high-ceilinged room. The placard reads,  _ “In Memory of the Crimson Duelists. May the tragedy of their end ever be remembered and never be repeated.” _

They take a deep breath before getting a grip on the heavy stone lid of the coffin and beginning to slide it open. 

It feels wrong. This isn’t their legacy to retrieve. This isn’t their  _ resting place _ to defame and desecrate. 

They look down, hoping against all hope that their client (a daughter of one of those passed) had not been lying when she said the tomb would not contain any bodies. All they see are swords. Dozens upon dozens of them, each bearing a length of red cloth tied to the hilt. 

They only need one. 

Each sword they remove from the tomb makes their conscience weigh heavy. There is no way that their client could have made it here, given her lack of martial skill, but they still should not be doing this. They are unholy just like the robbers and twisted spectres that haunt the halls. 

They do not deserve to disturb those who should be left at peace. 

_ Krissin, M’hena, Yana, Heia, X’rhun… _

They cannot find the correct weapon even with the messily embroidered names pointing them away from all those that are not right. They look through them again, committing each to memory, and nearly miss the clattering of stone against stone. 

They look around, feeling for whatever fell within the coffin. It takes a good amount of patting about and mild cursing before they manage to get their hands on a shiny and oddly-shaped crystal. It looks like a soulstone of sorts, even with a crack running through the scratched-up symbol.

They weigh it in their palm and suddenly,  _ impossibly,  _ they see someone who should not be there. He smiles, tipping his hat, and reaches into the pile of swords, hand closing around the hilt of the same one they remember saying  _ X’rhun  _ and asks,  _ “Will you carry it? The weight of the Red?” _

They gasp, breath coming short and anxious, and drop the stone to the floor. 

He vanishes. 

They finish searching for the sword their client requested, securing it to their belt. They try not to think about who they saw while cleaning up, using a bit of tattered drapery to wipe down each weapon as they put them away, but it eats at them. 

They look at the red crystal again. 

The sword he had grabbed sits atop all others as if  _ expectant.  _ They can’t take it. It is not their banner to bear. 

But they pick up the soulstone again, anyways. 

_ “Will you seek balance?” _

They startle, hearing him speak again. They whip around, seeking to see him and make a decision. 

He stands next to the tomb, one gloved hand resting on the rim as if it was the bannister of a grand staircase. His uniform is well kept and buttoned up to the neck like Red Mages in Ala Mhigan street stories. The laughter lines around his eyes are too light for him to have lived all that long. 

He can’t have been all that much older than them, when he died. 

“Who… are you?” they ask, already knowing the answer. 

_ “X’rhun Tia, a Crimson Duelist,”  _ he replies. His appearance flickers and they see the red of his coat darken, patches of blood blooming all along his body.  _ “Would you like to know of our legacy?” _

They blink a few times as if to clear their vision, looking back at him. He is just as hale and whole as he had been the first time they saw him. “What was that?” they mutter, more to themself than him. 

Do they want to listen? Are they just holding a miscellaneous rock and hallucinating people they’ve never met? 

They pull another soulstone from their pocket and call upon it. He disappears. 

They put it back. He reappears.

“You’re… in here,” they say, looking down at the crystal. “I’m not losing my wits quite yet.”

_ “I assure you that I am quite real. All of my memories are.” _

They inhale sharply, breath hissing between their teeth. “You’re dead.”

_ “Yes.” _

“And you want me to become a Red Mage.”

_ “Should you wish it, I would be glad to pass on the mantle.” _

“I…” they trail off, looking at him as they would a dangerous creature. They need to get out of there and head back before the sun sets. They need to finish up with putting everything away and leaving the way they came. They need… to figure out why it feels like they know him. “I would. I do. I mean—I wish it.”

His smile turns mournful when he says,  _ “Then rise as one of the Red and take up Murgleis. May you never meet the end of those who came before.” _

They reach out and take his sword in hand, feeling the familiar rush of their Job changing, and when the sensation fades, he is gone again. 

But they do not feel that he left. 

They pocket the soulstone and finish closing up the tomb, snagging a dented-up Focus they somehow  _ know  _ was his. They pick their way out of the crypt and back tk their client, handing them their parent’s weapon and the attached scrap of red cloth. 

She looks at them and Murgleis at their hip and asks, “Promise me you’ll be careful with him?”

“I will,” they reply uneasily. 

She grins, saying, “I can be at peace, now.” 

Between one second and the next, she vanishes. They gasp, turning around and calling for her as if it was simply a prank. 

The wind whispers again and when it brushes by them, they hear it say,  _ “Thank you.”  _ in a tongue that cannot be named. 

The soulstone feels like lead in their pocket.

**Author's Note:**

> hewwo again!!
> 
> Twitter [@khirimochi](https://twitter.com/khirimochi) OR [@TheHolyBody (NSFW)](https://twitter.com/TheHolyBody)  
> Tunglr @[Main](https://kiriami.tumblr.com) OR @[FFXIV Imagines](https://ffxivimagines.tumblr.com)


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